The stretcher arrived and she was carried to her tent, where Dr. Grayson made a thorough examination of her injuries.

“Not serious,” was his verdict, to everybody’s immense relief.  “Painful bump on the head, but no real damage done, and back strained a little, that’s all.”

Once more Agony was the camp heroine, and her tent was crowded all day long with admirers.  Miss Amesbury sat and read to her by the hour; the camp cook made up special dishes and sent them out on a tray trimmed with wild flowers; the camp orchestra serenaded her daily and nightly, and half a dozen clever camp poets made up songs in her honor.  Fame comes easily in camps, and enthusiasm runs high while it lasts.

Agony reflected, in a grimly humorous way, that in the matter of fame she had a sort of Midas touch; everything she did rebounded to her glory, now that the ball was once started rolling.  And worst of all was the book that Edwin Langham had left for her, a beautiful copy of “The Desert Garden,” bound in limp leather with gold edged leaves.  Inside the cover was written in a flowing, beautiful hand: 

    “To A.C.W., in memory of a certain day in the woods. 
    From one who rejoices in a brave and noble deed. 
    Sincerely, Edwin Langham.”

On the opposite page was written a quotation which Agony had been familiar with ever since she had become a Winnebago: 

    “Love is the joy of service so deep that self is
    forgotten.”

She put the book away where she could not see it, but the words had burned themselves into her brain.

    “To A.C.W.  From one who rejoices in a brave and noble
    deed.”

They mocked her in the dead of night, they taunted her in the light of day.  But, like the boy with the fox gnawing at his vitals, Agony continued to smile and make herself agreeable, and no one ever suspected that her gayety was not genuine.

CHAPTER XII

THE STUNT’S THE THING

“Where would a shipwreck look best, right by the dock, or farther up the shore?” Sahwah’s forehead puckered up with the force of her reflection.

“Oh, not right by the dock,” said Jo Severance decidely.  “That would be too modern and—­commonplace.  It’s lots more epic to be dashed against a rocky cliff.  All the shipwrecks in the books happen on stern and rockbound coasts and things like that.”

“It might be more epic for those who are looking on, but for the one that gets shipwrecked,” Sahwah reminded her.  “As long as I’m the one that get’s wrecked I’m going to pick out a soft spot to get wrecked on.”

“Why not capsize some distance out in the water and swim ashore?” suggested Migwan.

“Of course!” exclaimed Sahwah.  “Why didn’t we think of that before?  Geese!”

“This is the way we’ll start, then,” said Migwan, taking out her notebook and scribbling in it with a pencil.  “Scene One.  Sinbad the Sailor clinging to wreckage of vessel out in the water.  He drifts ashore and lands in the kingdom of the Keewaydins.”  She paused and bit the end of her pencil, seeking inspiration.  “Then, what will you do when you land, Sahwah?”